Writ In Blood
by ashestoashesanddusttodust
Summary: Drabbles series, mostly unrelated.
1. Alone

**Alone  
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**A Word: **I love the crap out of the storyline of AC, but I am absolute shit at playing it. I'm working through a bit of nostalgia right now. Don't mind me.

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Altair doesn't realize how truly alone he is in the world until he has to staunch the bleeding of a wild last blow from a dying guard he had been foolish enough to turn his back to far too soon. The Bureau for the city is not far, but the Rafiq there has been dismissive of his presence so far and is not likely to be much help. Altair would be given fresh bandages at the most, and still be expected to tend and wrap the wounds himself.

Alone, he hides in a roof top garden that has been abandoned to collect sand and trash with the meager contents of his own medical supplies spread out on a table missing a leg. A strip of cloth, an almost empty jar of salve, and a bone needle that lacks thread. He ignores the salve for the moment and manages a messy job with the cloth that stems the blood flow and not much else.

The effort of it drains him of more energy than he thought possible. The pain of his wounds and his exertion catching up to him faster than it ever has before. Leaving him feeling weak and helpless in a way that makes Altair want to lash out at an enemy that is not physical.

Being alone is not something that one can face with a blade or fists.

He has never held much faith in others. His expectations have ever been too high for people, and they have always proved to him how little he should extend his trust. It is why he pushed so hard in training. Aching to be better, faster, stronger. Enough to not have to rely on those who only continued to betray him. Knowing he was better off to rely only on himself, and no one else.

Abbas and his black tongue had only been the first person to drive that point home to Altair.

It was a foolish thought. The belief that he did not need anyone, that he was good enough to be perfectly fine all alone. Altair sees the stupidity in it now that he truly is alone, and not simply ignorant of how much help he received before.

He has always been able to at least rely on the other Brothers of the Order for some form of aid. Some small thing that only the most nervous of novices could mess up. Like cleaning hard to reach wounds and making sure the wound wasn't larger than it feels to Altair's fingers. His normally sure fingers turned clumsy from the angle and lack of sight.

In Masyaf there are physicians to care for the wounded returning from missions, and the every day injuries of training. In the field, his own Brothers would be expected to do the work if the Bureau was no option, but Altair is far from Masyaf and no longer allowed either of those things. The Bureaus are closed to him as anything but places where he is to relearn lessons he already knows. The Master's way of punishing him for his failure. His Brothers do not look at him these days and would not dream of helping him now. Their contempt for him having less to do with his failed mission and more to do with his failure to help his own Brothers when they needed him the most.

Altair hisses as his fingers slip and prod painfully at the wound. He is alone now, more so than he ever thought he was before. More than he thought possible. He lays himself out on the dusty floor of the enclosed area, turning until the pain in his back fades to a dull ache, and closes his eyes. Biting back the fine sense of paranoia that screams at him for being so vulnerable in such a public place. He needs rest now, and the safety of the Bureau will not welcome him. The watchful eyes of his Brothers will not guard him. He is alone, utterly, for the first time in his life, and Altair must rest. Must mend his own wounds, and guard his own sleep. He must do this to earn his redemption. To earn back the safety and simple aide he had once taken for granted.

The Master had assured him, his redemption would not be easy or quick, and -for the first time- Altair is starting to see the truth in his words.

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	2. Desmond

**Desmond  
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**A Word: **I have a rather long and convoluted headcanon on who Desmond is to Ezio as opposed to who Ezio is for Desmond. Also, all about how Ezio seems to be caught between the past figure of Altair and the future one of Desmond.

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Desmond.

A name, strange and foreign to Ezio but masculine sounding even as it rolled off the tongue of a woman claiming divinity with her own name. Her eyes looking past him into the glowing shadows created by ancient words that flickered in the vault. The words she threw at him sharp with reprimand as she dismissed him and all his efforts. Not willing to acknowledge Ezio or his questions.

So very much effort, blood, and death spent on a woman who denied being divine even as she spoke to a spirit Ezio could not see. Words he could not comprehend except in their dire urgency.

He should have known when he was called Prophet. A prophet is a man given words to give to others. Nothing more and nothing less. A mere container for the wisdom and revelations of another being. A higher being, though Ezio's belief in such a being as a god -a shaky concept even with his family alive- has suffered greatly over time.

The woman's words and disregard had burned him then as her form disappeared. Leaving him alone in the now dark room with his confusion and unanswered pleas. That name, that damnable _name_ the last thing she said echoing in his ears.

It was all over in that instant, and Ezio was left to continue on with no more knowledge than when he entered the Vault. Only more questions and a name that would linger in his mind. One that he would say to himself at times when sleep alluded him, or the distance between cities grew long and there was none but himself to hear the way it sounded.

Desmond. Ezio knew not who he was, or would be. He only knew the name and the feeling, distant and phantom, of being watched. As if one stood over his shoulder and watched his life with him. A feeling that grew stronger only around the artifacts and was never as strong as when he paid his respects to the skeletal remains of a great man.

Altair Ibn-La'Ahad.

A Grand Master and a man truly worthy of being called Mentor for all he had done for the Order. For all that he had done to protect one last artifact of great power. It glowed, the Apple, and the urge to take it up was strong but the feeling of being watched was stronger than ever before. As was the feeling of wrongness.

"Desmond," the name rolled off his tongue. Foreign syllables no longer foreign or strange from the years of saying it. It felt right to lay down his weapons, to place the symbols of his position on the ground.

Ezio is a Prophet, and he's spent what feels like his whole life trying to be something more. To be more than just a vessel to carry knowledge he doesn't understand to someone he does not know. All his travels and battles have gotten him little but stories to tell and more questions that he has accepted will never be answered. He has done the best he can with what he has, but now is the time for that to end.

Light glows from the artifact, reminiscent of the Vault as Ezio speaks to a man he knows is listening to him. A man he knows now might have _always_ been listening. Even when he thought himself truly and wretchedly alone in the world. It has been a comfort to him lately, and when the golden glow coalesces into the shape of a man Ezio only feels a sense of fond kinship for him.

He makes out a face, eyes, strange clothing, and the sense of a solid arm under his hand before this apparition too disappears. Gone, perhaps for the last time in his life. Ezio is left alone in the dark with the bones of a legend, and the now inert sphere of an artifact he will not touch.

There's a sense of loss to it, equaled only by a sense of profound relief. Desmond is gone, back to where ever it is he hails from, and Ezio's task is finally finished.

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	3. Rise

**Rise  
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**A Word**: Crossover with Rise of the Guardians, because my brain hates me. North would be Edward, Tooth is Connor, and Sandy would be Ezio. That is all I have. I weep while my mind cackles.

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Desmond follows someone, or something, down into a dark alley. He leaps down from the roof and vaguely wonders if he should be worried or not.

"Been a long time, Jack Frost. Blizzard of 68, I believe? Easter Sunday, wasn't it?"

Desmond stands up from his crouch and throws a grin over his shoulder. Unexplained blur of movement running over the rooftops? He should've known it would be Altair. The man steps out of the shadows of the alley. The half light reflecting off his eyes and the knife he casually flicks up in the air before catching. It's enough to give most sensible people nightmares, but Desmond has never claimed to be very sensible.

"Buns!" Desmond twirls his staff and holds it -loose but ready to block- because Altair _hates_ nicknames, and Desmond _loves_ seeing the way his jaw twitches. It's a clear recipe for massive, global spanning fights, and it's been far too long since they last had one of those. The Spirit of Spring likes to pretend he's far too busy for the likes of Desmond. "You're not still mad about that are you?"

Desmond knows he is. The entire day had to be cancelled because of the snow, and it'd thrown off the man's carefully scheduled plans for the entire year. His face had been worth the asskicking he got for that prank.

"Yes!" Altair hisses as he catches the knife and holds it pretty damn threateningly, but Desmond has seen Altair at his most pissed and isn't really phased. When the Guardian gets really mad he doesn't give any emotion away at all. That's when Desmond knows it's time to start running. "But this isn't about that."

"Oh?" Desmond cocks an eyebrow and leans against his staff, because Altair doesn't seek Desmond out on his own. No one does. Desmond is always the one who has to go to them and get their attention.

Altair doesn't respond, just nods to the left and Desmond has a half second to realize they're not alone before he's being picked up. "Hey! Let me go!"

Glowing eyes glint at him and Desmond tries to lash out but the Yeti are made of strong stuff, and there's not much he can do to as he's folded up into a ball and stuffed into a sack.

He hears Altair laugh briefly before there's a crash and the sound of wind roaring. He sways in the sack as the Yeti runs and Desmond curses as he grips his staff tight. Resigned to having to wait to find out what he's gotten himself into this time.

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	4. Never Should Have

**Never Should Have  
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**A Word**: Modern Army AU, and random musings. Also, whump, because Kadar.

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It never should have happened, for damn good reason, but neither Malik nor Kadar had cared when they were placed in the same unit. Not when they were placed in the same platoon. It'd been a joke, the older and younger brother working so closely together. Malik's presence one more level of authority over Kadar. It made things easier on them both, being able to be so close together when Malik had been sure they would have been kept apart when they joined the Army. Being able to get up and go about his day easier when he could still keep an eye on his younger brother.

It never really mattered that the brothers were so closely kept together, not when they were stationed in the States. Not until the deployment orders went through did it matter.

The dry air of the country had been harsh, as had the workload they received from day one of boots on ground. It'd been a blessing then to have Kadar so close. Not having to worry about distance. All Malik had to do was look up to see his brother was well. Easing his mind from some of the worry and stress that comes with a constant schedule of presence patrols, and escorts.

They're six months in when the higher ups seem to realize they've got two brothers not only in the same unit, but the same platoon going out on the same missions. Malik rages when the Captain informs them that one of them is being moved. That the orders come straight from the General himself, and there's nothing that can be done. Malik's response to that is enough to get him several article 15s, but the Captain lets him have his moment before sending them both away.

"It's not that bad," Kadar says when they're in the shitty barracks they're quartered in. Trailers sectioned off in three rooms for two men each. Worse, somehow, than the thirty man open bay barracks they'd had before the trailers were brought in. "They'll just shift me to another platoon, not like they're going to send me back home, right?"

They don't. They also don't reassign him right away. The decision was fast, but the paperwork -as always- is slow to go through making the change official. Kadar refuses to leave them before he absolutely has to and no one pushes for it. They've all worked together for too long to want to give up their comforting stability for the uncertainty of a new and untested soldier. It's a shitty time to replace anyone, and they're all angry over the decision.

Maybe if they hadn't been so pissed things would have turned out differently.

Malik remembers the argument. His arrogant as fuck team leader imperiously ordering Malik to drive forward, Kadar's assurances over the headset that he doesn't see anything wrong from up in the turret, and Malik's own unease that something wasn't _right_. Something was off with the area and six months should have been enough to make them all listen to that instinct.

Should have, would have, could have. Malik lives by those thoughts now.

"Kadar!" Smoke stings Malik's nose and he gags on the smell of it, mind uncomprehending over the smell of burnt flesh as he claws at the vest over Kadar. Pulling the releases open and searching. Searching for what he hadn't found at his neck, either wrist, or anywhere. "Damn you, damn you don't!"

Hands seize him from behind and Malik lashes out, hears a grunt as he's released. Kadar doesn't move, doesn't flinch and Malik feels a scream building up in him.

"Stop! Sayf!" The hands are back, a voice calling out the shortening of his name that had been determined for the best by the higher ups early on. Malik strikes out again but he doesn't connect as he's dragged away from Kadar. "Your arm! Damn you stop fighting me!"

The pain had been unnoticeable until then, and the scream that had been building leaves Malik in a burst as it increases suddenly. All of it focusing in on his left arm. Malik remembers the sight of a tourniquet being twisted into a bloody mess before he must have passes out.

Things after that are blurry. Malik exists in a haze of drugs for the longest time. Faces and ceilings swimming in and out of his vision, but his mind is too full of nothing to care or follow even when they almost seem familiar. He's already in Germany when they wean him off the heavy drugs and Malik surfaces enough to think. There's an empty space to his left where his arm should be, but it's not as big as the empty space to the right where his brother should be.

It never should have happened. Family members should not be allowed to serve together for a very good reason. Malik knows that now. He can see it every time he closes his eyes and Kadar's dead eyes stare up at him, his skin torn and burned by a blast he cannot remember.

It _never_ should have happened.

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	5. Loose Dirt

**Loose Dirt  
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**A Word**: Ibid.

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"Are you going to try again?" Malik asks with curiosity coloring his voice.

Altair pays the man no mind as he paces the length and breadth of the hole they're trapped in. Which is in no way his fault despite what Malik says. He eyes a section of the steeply sloped wall that looks solid and leaps up as far as he can. He climbs building taller than this, the wall should not be a problem.

Dirt crumbles under his fingers and Altair grits his teeth as he sinks his fingers into the soil as deeply as he can. It's slightly wet still, the sun not having dried it completely and it continues to crumble under his weight.

"You're sliding down," Malik offers helpfully from his seat below him. "You might want to start moving or you will end up back where you started."

Altair ignores hims and moves. Kicking into the wall of loose dirt to push himself up. Hands clawing for any hold he can get. He's sliding down more than he's moving up, but he _is_ moving up.

"It's like watching a child learn to walk," Malik's voice reaches him all too easily. "Are you sure you are a Grandmaster and not a Novice?"

A large chunk crumbles under his left foot and Altair plunges further than he wants before catching himself. He throws himself back into the climb. Focusing on the dirt directly in front of him and not the lip of the hole above him.

"No, that's an insult to Novices. Even the clumsiest ones know how to climb a simple wall."

"If it's so simple you are welcome to try yourself!" Altair spits out, and then spits again to clear his mouth of dirt.

"But Altair," Malik's voice is deceptively light and utterly cruel, "I only have _one_ arm. How could I climb myself?"

He had known that remark would come back to bite him the second he opened his mouth, and Altair has no one else to blame but himself for it. Malik takes insults to his fitness personally. He always has, and it's only become worse with the loss of his left arm. Altair is going to be paying for that remark for months now.

"Are you climbing or trying to swim up the dirt? We both know how you are with the latter, I would suggest you start actually climbing," Malik is spiteful in his glee.

Altair wishes he'd chosen the area above Malik's head now. Just for that one brief moment of being able to kick dirt back onto the sharp tongued man. He grinds his teeth together -feeling dirt between his teeth- and tries to concentrate on climbing. Throwing himself up as fast as he can to get above the rain of dirt.

"Impressive!" Malik calls out. "If you put a little more effort into it you just might make it up instead of flat on your back this time!"

Altair curses and is rewarded with another mouth of dirt for his troubles. He can barely see the lip of the hole even when he tries. The dirt cascading straight in his eyes when he tries. His next lunge up finds it and Altair doesn't make the mistake of thinking he's finished this time. The lip holds as he scrambles up but, like his last try, starts to slowly crumble the further up he gets. Altair throws his other arm out as soon as he can to grab another hold. Further away where the dirt is drier and more stable.

Rolling up and over the edge is an ungainly spectacle with zero dignity. He rolls to get distance and allows himself to lay there for a bit on his back. Breathing hard from far more exertion than should have been needed. He barks out a sharp laugh, "There! I made it! Happy now?"

"Unbelievably so," a bit of dirt drops down on his face and Altair opens his eyes to gape up at Malik standing above him. Shaking some of the loose dirt off of himself and looking unbearably smug. "It only took you _how_ long to make the climb?"

"How?" Altair hisses the question as Malik turns to walk away, trailing dirt despite his best attempts to shake it all off.

"Firstly, I did not try to climb up in a straight line, that helped greatly," Malik waves his arm negligently behind him and Altair doesn't need to see his face to know there's an unbearably smug grin on his face. "You might have heard of the tactic in passing, or perhaps not. It is one of the first things we teach Novices after all."

"I hate you," Altair breathes and doesn't care one bit if Malik hears him or not.

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	6. Fracture

**Fracture  
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**A Word**: Was asked by Kaitouhime on Tumblr what would happen if Altair fractured his left wrist. A lot of idiocy was my first thought.

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"It's broken you idiot!" Malik snaps when Altair persists in trying to strap the bracer of his hidden blade onto his arm. The small noises of pain he makes as he tightens the straps down going beyond annoying. He gets up from the desk he's been hunched over for too long now and crosses the room to stop him. "Why do you persist in harming yourself further?"

Al Mualim had broken it in their fight, and the riots that had erupted afterwards had done him no good. Strict instructions for the newly appointed Grandmaster to leave it be have been ignored. Malik had hoped that the pain of his attempts would teach him to head the words of the doctors, but it's clear now that Altair will remain as hard headed as ever.

"I am fine!" Altair snaps, and there's frustration in his voice. A good sign because the man has been listless these past few days. Grief and guilt hanging over him as the graveyard gains more bodies. The unease of the change in power still gripping some of their Brothers, enticing them to betrayal.

"You are not," Malik snorts and makes short work of the buckles on the blade. Altair does not stop him though he scowls as Malik lowers himself to the cushions that had been brought to the study still so filled with secrets only Al Mualim knew. Altair refuses to leave such dangerous knowledge unguarded until they can deal with it themselves and sleeps in the room at night.

Malik props Altair's arm on his raised knee and shoots another glare at the man when he tries to move it away. Quelled, he takes his time to study the arm. There's a bruising that goes deep under the skin starting from the heel of his hand to halfway down the arm. A dark red and purple that has a few distinct lines that Malik can easily read as fingers when he runs his own lightly over the damaged flesh. The bone itself is not horribly broken. Nothing had broken through, and the doctors had not had to reset it. Simply warning that any overt use could compound the break into something more serious.

It's almost a pity it was not worse to start off with. Altair still has an inability to properly respect things that he cannot see. A shard of bone sticking out of his arm would have made him more likely to allow himself to rest and heal.

Altair hisses as Malik circles his wrist with his fingers. The noise is sharp and cut off fast, Altair's face turning mulish as Malik prods at the swollen area. "I don't know why you are even trying to wear that right now. The straps will not fit until this goes down, and it will not go down until you _stop_ trying to use your hand. You must allow yourself to heal, Altair!"

"There's not time for it!" Altair spits out before his shoulders slump and he falls back onto the cushions. His frustration melting away into something far more petulant, and something Malik hasn't seen since they were both children. "It hurts."

"Because you are an idiot," Malik scolds even as his lips try to steal up into a grin. "It hurts because it is broken, do I need to call one of our doctors back up here to explain how that works? Even Novice know to take the time to heal properly before pushing themselves."

"I don't even have to do anything for it to hurt," Altair protests as he brings his arm up to rest on his chest. Fingers curled in a loose fist.

"That is the nature of broken bones," Malik picks up the blade and turns it over in his hand. Examining the inner workings of it as Altair shifts and grimaces as the movement no doubt pains him.

"Do you wish to have one?" Altair eventually asks, voice catching a little like it always does when he thinks he's encroaching on areas best left alone. Specifically the matter of Malik's arm and Kadar.

"I have only five fingers," Malik snorts and throws the bracer to the small chest that has become container for all of Altair's clothing and spare weapons. It thumps down on a set of black robes he has yet to put on. "I will not sacrifice one of them."

"But what if I could alter it?" Altair asks after a wince. Either at the pain or the guilt that Malik doesn't think will ever go away. "Build it so that the blade would not need to be so close to the arm."

The hidden blade is more than just a weapon. To the Brotherhood it is a symbol of all that they strive for, all that they believe. The sacrifice of the finger to use it is symbolic, and the oaths they take as the digit falls are sacred. He doubts that the idea of taking that away from the Brotherhood will be welcomed.

"Perhaps," Malik hedges and keeps his doubts to himself with a sharp shake of his head as he rises to his feet. Altair will have to heal before he can even think about making a hidden blade anyone can wear, and the time for that grows longer the more he stubbornly pushes himself. "For now, why don't you worry about finishing reading," Malik nudges a pile of scrolls closer to Altair, "these treaties?"

"But I hurt," Altair protests with a guileless expression that makes Malik want to kick him. His eyes are lighting up with laughter the longer Malik glares down at him, and he makes a show of curling his other hand protectively over the broken one.

"You are about to hurt a lot more if you don't stop complaining like a Novice practicing unarmed combat for the first time," Malik snaps and turns to walk back to his desk. Perhaps it truly is his, because Altair shows more fondness for working on the floor than anywhere else. Altair gives him a wounded look when he looks back briefly, but he can hear the crinkle of parchment when he goes back to deciphering the scribble of notes not in Al Mualim's hand.

Altair forgets himself often, and Malik hears the bitten off sounds of pain but at least the idiot isn't actively _trying_ to break himself further. It's a small improvement, but Malik will take what he can get.

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